


down to the filter

by extinguish



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Character Study, M/M, Smoking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22487194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extinguish/pseuds/extinguish
Summary: Through the years, if Jesse ever stopped to think about it, there's always been one constant.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Reaper | Gabriel Reyes
Comments: 16
Kudos: 42





	down to the filter

**Author's Note:**

> ok pretty sure this fic has been written like 100 times over already but here’s my take on it. kind of a 5+1(+1?). it was supposed to be more of a relationship study but i think it ended up being more of a character study…? anyway i think smoke is a fitting motif for them, considering. also i tried to make this canon-compliant, but honestly, i don’t know what’s head-canon and what’s real anymore so please treat my timeline of events with the same blind-eye we treat what blizzard threw at us. thank you and enjoy!

1.

What they don’t tell you about adrenaline is how much it hurts to come down the wrong end of it. Jesse didn’t care so much about somersaulting behind crates to dodge bullets back when he thought he was going to die but now, tied to a chair in a nondescript interrogation room and decidedly not dead, he’s starting to regret the acrobatics. It doesn’t help that his wrists are so tightly bound that he can feel the tears beginning to erode his skin. They weren’t kind when they zip-tied his wrists, not that he expected them to be. Just hurt like hell.

There’s a noose around his neck, he knows. He’s not sure what he’s doing here—why they didn’t lock him up right away or kill him when they had the chance. He still might face death, he supposes, but it’d be mighty wasteful of them to lug his warm body over to a facility instead of writing him off as a casualty to the cross-fire. Unless they mean to torture him. The thought almost makes him laugh.

“Can’t be worse than this,” he mumbles under his breath. His wrists hurt. His ankle is probably fucked. His forehead is cut up and the blood’s dripping into his eyes. He needs a smoke.

He glares at the two-way mirror and hopes whoever’s on the other side is done watching him squirm around in his chair like a restless child. 

Apparently they are. The door opens and a tall man dressed up in combat gear walks in. He’s somebody Jesse recognizes—Reyes, Commander of Overwatch if he’s remembering correctly. Deadlock had always kept tabs on Overwatch’s activities, although Jesse had never paid full attention, figuring they’d never end up on Overwatch’s radar. A mistake on his part. Reyes looks bigger in person than he had on the news. Jesse remembers seeing him next to Morrison on some broadcast, bragging about a diplomat they’d saved. He’s not holding any visible weapon, although Jesse has no doubt he’s probably hiding a few out of sight. Probably not torture, then, at least not by his hands. They usually like to flaunt their weapons when that’s the case. He tries to relax as best he can, which is more than could be expected of him given the circumstances.

Reyes takes his time walking over. He stands about a foot away, looking down at Jesse in a way that makes him bristle and itch to stand at his own full height, however lacking it might be in comparison.

“What’s your name, cowboy?”

Jesse sees no point in lying. They probably know already, anyhow. “Jesse McCree. No need for introductions on your part, Commander. I know who you are.”

The man’s expression doesn’t change. “Oh?”

Jesse shrugs as best he can against the restraints. “Might not look like it, but I watch the news. You gonna tell me what I’m doin’ here?”

Reyes’s expression keeps even and cool. “I’ve done some research, McCree. You’ve been involved with the Deadlock gang for a few years now. Made quite a name for yourself.”

Jesse shrugs. He’s not dumb enough to be goaded into revealing information if that’s what Reyes is trying to do.

“You shot one of my men.”

He says it like Jesse doesn’t know that already. Like he wasn’t the one to pull the trigger. “So, what? You gonna teach me a lesson? Torture me for messin’ with Overwatch before you ship me off to your big fancy prison? If you’re wantin’ me to apologize for shootin’ at someone tryin’ to kill me, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

“When we brought you in we only found a revolver on your person.”

There’s a question hidden somewhere in that statement, but Jesse can’t fathom where. “And?”

“Your group smuggles military-grade weaponry. I would’ve guessed that you’d have access to higher grade weapons than an old revolver.”

“Don’t you know you ain’t supposed to sample the merchandise?” Jesse tries for a grin, but Reyes’s face stays impassive. “Christ you’re tightly wound, Commander. Sure, those guns are fancy, but there’s nothin’ I can do with ‘em that I can’t do with that revolver. Anyway, I’m sure you can guess by now that I ain’t the brains of this operation. If you’re wantin’ details about weapon shipments, I’m ‘fraid I can’t help you with that.”

“It was an impressive shot.”

Jesse blinks. He’s not sure what to make of that. “Ain’t that a touch disrespectful to your men?”

“There were no casualties.”

Now that’s a blow to Jesse’s self-confidence. He’d been aiming to kill, but it’s always tougher with military types as targets, what with that inconvenient head-to-toe armor.

“Not that I don’t appreciate your positive feedback on my shootin’ abilities, Commander, but what’s all this about? I’m jonsein’ for a smoke, can’t much wrap my head around all this.”

It’s the honest truth, and the last thing he expects is for Reyes to reach into the inner pocket of his jacket and pull out a carton of cigarettes, much less pull one out and hold it up like an offering. McCree half-expects Reyes to smoke it in front of him, as some type of sick punishment.

“You serious?” Jesse asks, dumbfounded. “What’s the catch? A name for each drag? I’m not that desperate.”

“No catch. I’m not here to torture you, McCree,” says Reyes. He holds the cigarette close to Jesse’s mouth, but just far enough that he has to lean forward an inch to wrap his lips around it. “I’m here to offer you a deal.”

Reyes pulls out a shiny lighter next. Jesse goes cross-eyed watching the flame flicker to life, tilting ever so slightly forward to light his cigarette. He holds the pull in longer than he usually would before exhaling slowly. It’s a different brand than he usually smokes, but the taste of nicotine is as good a relief as any. 

The stick isn’t easy to maneuver around without his hands but Jesse thinks he’s doing a fair job of it. That’s probably the reason they let him have it in the first place—to make him feel helpless. Jesse’s been around enough to recognize power plays when he sees them. He holds his head high regardless, ignoring the hot ash that drops onto the skin of his thigh through the hole in his jeans. Reyes looks down at him and Jesse tries not to stare at the way his biceps protrude as he crosses his arms. _Power,_ he thinks again.

When he looks back up Reyes is staring at his mouth. “That’s a nasty habit for someone so young to have. Pity to think of what you’ll have to do to get cigs once they lock you up.”

Jesse exhales, blowing smoke to the side. “Nothing worse than what you do for a livin’, I reckon.” He lets Reyes chew on that for a second, and then, “You said a deal, earlier. You want me to sell Deadlock out? Didn’t figure they’d be high on your priority list, ‘specially since you just shot most of ‘em. A shortened sentence don’t matter to me much, either.”

“And what about no sentence?”

Jesse’s grateful for the willpower he summons in that moment to not drop his cigarette.

“I’m not going to waste my time beating around the bush any longer,” Reyes says, stepping forward. “You’re a crack shot. I think you’ve got potential. Too much to waste locked up in a cell, at any rate. Deadlock’s over now. Even if you escape somehow you’ve got nowhere to return to. You’re too young to give up your life out of pride for a dead gang. I’m willing to offer you a position on my team, contingent on you completing the training to my liking.”

In all the scenarios Jesse had concocted about what this meeting would entail, this was was never one of them. He coughs on smoke. “In Overwatch?”

“Something like that.”

Jesse stares at him for any sign he’s joking. “You do this often? Recruit criminals?”

“You’d be the first.”

Jesse knows this game. Freedom always comes at a cost, he just needs to figure out what that is. “Don’t much fancy bein’ a guinea pig.”

Reyes smiles wryly. “You’d do better to consider yourself a stray dog.”

“So, what’s the catch?” Jesse takes another drag. “I’m assumin’ you don’t make this kinda offer without some sort of catch.”

“If you cooperate, no prison time. I see you as an investment. Catch is, you need to earn your place here. I have no intentions of wasting my time on someone who’s of no use to me. You’ll have to bust your ass in training to prove yourself. If I decide it’s worth it, I’ll give you three meals a day, housing, specialized training and access to our facilities. If I catch you trying to escape for any reason, well. I’ll leave that up to your imagination.”

It’s framed like an offer, but Jesse knows it’s not much of a choice. He knows which prison a guy with a record like his will go to just like he knows what will happen to a guy like him once he’s in there. Still, he doesn’t want Reyes acting like he’s doing him a favor. He knows where debts get him.

“Well, then,” Jesse says, going for flippant. “Guess I could give it a shot.”

“Let me be clear.” Reyes steps forward. He plucks the cigarette from Jesse’s mouth and drops it to the floor, twisting it under the steel toe of his boot. “Overwatch has their doubts about your loyalty. I’m willing to take a chance because I see potential in you and I don’t think you’re dangerous enough to be of any real threat to me. If you join, your every move will be monitored by me. You will _listen_ to me. You will _report_ to me. Any problems, and I won’t hesitate to ship your ass to the supermax. Do you follow?”

Jesse swallows, chest tight, heart beating a mile a minute. “Yes.”

Reyes shakes his head. “From now on you’ll address me as your commander. So, let’s try this again. Do you follow, cowboy?”

Jesse glares with everything he has, spits out the words, “Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

And with that, Reyes turns his back and marches out of the room without another look back, and Jesse is left glaring at the crushed remains of his cigarette. 

  
  
  
  
  


2.

They don’t let him smoke.

Reyes claims it’s an issue of legality, but Jesse knows it’s a power play. Just another way of establishing control. Sure, Jesse’s the only 17-year-old there, and definitely the only felon, but it’d be mighty hypocritical to worry about ethics when they’re training him to be a mercenary. Reyes wasn’t kidding when he’d called him a stray dog. Every day Jesse feels the weight of the leash around his neck and the pressure of the Commander’s steel-toed boot against his throat, regulating every breath he takes.

True to what Jesse expects, Reyes never lets him hold his head above water for too long. Once he gets his mile time under five minutes, Reyes has him run three miles every morning before breakfast. Of course, it’s not all bad. Jesse’s pretty sure he’s never eaten this much before in his entire life, and never this well. His room is small, but he has it all to himself. Jesse can’t remember the last time he’d slept without someone snoring half a foot away from him. His first night in the facility he sleeps for over fourteen hours.

Time passes and the leash loosens. Reyes still hovers, but it’s not with the same intensity that it used to hold. Jesse doesn’t think the fire that burns in his belly when he sees Reyes will ever go away. Some nights, when Reyes is behind him, adjusting his combat position with those large hands of his, Jesse wonders what that heat in his gut is really all about.

After his first mission, Reyes pats him on the back and says _Good work, kid._ Jesse swipes a pack of cigs from another agent’s jacket and smokes his way through the box until the sun rises.

It’s strange how quickly the routine becomes a comfort, but Jesse supposes he’s always known that you have to adapt in order to survive. If playing nice in Blackwatch is how he’s going to do that, then so be it.

The other recruits warm up to him eventually, too. They assign him to a team of experienced agents for his first real mission, and although he strongly suspects Reyes told them all to keep his leash pulled tight, they don’t make it obvious. If they despise him for his past they show no sign of it.

He shoots enough people on his third mission to earn himself a drink, at least. They give him the cheap stuff—bottom shelf whiskey—but it’s what he’s used to so he can’t complain. On his fifth time out they stop for a smoke, and Jesse looks so desperate that they bum him one, watching him take the first pull in amused fascination.

“Jesus, kid. You look like you’re about to orgasm.”

Jesse lets the smoke settle in his lungs until he needs more air. “Might do. Haven’t had one in months.” The recruits to the side of him bark out laughter and Jesse flushes. “A smoke, I mean.”

“Sure, kid.”

Months pass and, like always, Jesse adapts.

He isn’t sure what to expect when Reyes calls him to his office one night after combat training. His frame isn’t any less intimidating behind a desk than it is standing at full height. Jesse straightens his back against the chair.

“Somethin’ you wanted to talk about, sir?”

Reyes keeps leveling him with that same unreadable stare. “You’ve been here for about a year now, McCree.”

God, had it really been that long? Jesse hopes the surprise isn’t too obvious on his face. “Sounds about right.”

Reyes opens a drawer and pulls out the last things Jesse expects—a scratch off lottery card and a pack of cigarettes. Jesse stares at him, waiting for an explanation.

“Your birthday wasn’t on file, but given you joined at 17 I figured you must be 18 by now.”

“‘Spose so, sir,” Jesse says. Even he’s not sure of his real birthdate. The realization dawns on him then, that this is Reyes’s version of a birthday gift, and a smile spreads across his face. “No porn mag?”

Jesse notices the smallest hint of a smile at the corner or Reyes’s lips. “Wasn’t sure what kind you’d want.”

“Never been too picky, sir,” he says, and, always one to press his luck, “This mean I can expect a bottle of whiskey in a few years?”

Reyes smirks. “Keep doing well on missions and I might be willing to expedite it a bit.”

A sudden, unwanted warmth spreads through Jesse’s body as he stares at Reyes, that half smile still hanging on his lips—the same warmth he’d been doing his best to press back down into his chest the past few months. He feels it creeping up his chest into his throat and, god, he needs to leave the office before he says something stupid. 

“Thank you, sir,” he manages to stutter out, snatching up the package and ticket quickly. Fidgeting minutely under Reyes’s stare, he waits for dismissal.

He doesn’t get it right away. Instead, Reyes holds him under that intense-yet-warm stare of his until Jesse thinks that his lungs might burst from holding his breath.

“Dismissed, McCree.”

Jesse flees. Jumpy on nicotine and adrenaline, he doesn’t sleep much that night.

  
  
  
  
  


3.

_Bang! Bang!_ Headshot. _Bang!_ Bullet through the heart. _Bang!_

Jesse’s hands shake on the last shot. Ana’d give him hell for the mistake he just made. Two inches to the left of where he’d been aiming on the practice dummy. Lowering his gun in frustration, he walks down the range and tosses the dummy onto the accumulating pile to the side, setting up a new dummy and heading back for another attempt.

Only one bullet missed its target. But all it takes is one.

_Bang! Bang!_

“McCree.”

The sudden utterance of his name catches him off guard, but it doesn’t affect his aim. The bullet goes straight through the dummy’s forehead, just like he’d intended. He puts another shot right next to it without turning to look. He knows who it is and he knows why he’s here. Jesse squints harder than before, and fires off three quick shots in succession, each hitting a different vital organ in the torso. Left lung, heart, liver.

_“McCree.”_

That tone finally pulls him out of it. He turns around and, just like he’d expected, Reyes is hovering a few feet away. He’s wearing a hoodie and tac pants which isn’t that unusual. What _is_ unusual is the obvious concern on his face. Usually Reyes keeps his emotions on lock like some sort of uptight botox victim. That careful blankness is not there tonight. 

“What?” Jesse snaps. 

Reyes frowns. “You’re bleeding,” he says.

Jesse holds one shaking hand up to his face. There’s a trickle of blood running down his cheek. His fingers trace the sticky path up to his eye.

“Hiding injuries?”

“Can’t hide what I don't know about.” Jesse holds out his fingers to examine the way they’re dripping red. That explains the eye pain. “What are you doin’ here, boss?”

“Came to kick you out. Gym’s closed for the night.”

Jesse frowns, struggling to hide his irritation. “Gym’s open all night.”

“I said it’s closed. Come with me, cowboy.”

The use of that nickname is an obvious ploy to lighten the mood, but it has the opposite effect. Feeling like a child being scolded, Jesse slams his gun down on the table and shoves his still-shaking hands into his pockets, following Reyes out of the gym. They end up in his office, Reyes behind his grand mahogany desk, and Jesse across from him, arms folded tight and reluctant across his chest, heart hammering like it’s primed to beat straight out of him at any moment.

“So,” Reyes starts. “I heard about the mission.”

Jesse scoffs. “And you came straight here to lecture me?”

“I’m not here to lecture you, McCree.”

“So what _are_ you here for?”

Reyes folds his hands on the desk. “To talk.”

“Well, I’m not in much of a talkin’ mood,” Jesse spits out, standing up to leave.

“Sit down McCree,” Reyes snaps. Jesse sits. “I’ve heard the rundown from some of the other agents and I’ve read your report.”

“And?”

“Well…” Reyes leans back in his chair, hands terse around the arms of it. “I know how a mission like that gets. I wanted to make sure you’re—okay.” That light hesitation, a split second, barely noticeable pause, is the first sign of discomfort that Reyes has shown this whole conversation. Jesse’s blood is boiling. “I wanted to hear how you’re doing directly, not just from your report.”

“You’ve got mighty fine deductin’ skills. I’m sure you can guess.” Jesse gives him nothing. If Reyes wants something from him, he’ll have to pry it out.

“Jesse, the mission was difficult—”

 _“My_ mission.” Jesse’s furious. Reyes keeps looking at him with the same placid eyes. “You keep saying ‘the’ mission. It was _my_ mission.”

“Jesse—”

“Don’t patronize me. I know how this conversation goes,” he spits. “First mission under my command and eveythin’ goes sideways. Simple retrieval plan and—” He pauses to swallow. The image keeps haunting his brain; the sudden explosion, a firework of blood and metal, then a body, unmoving on the pavement.

“Not every plan runs perfectly,” Reyes says, voice so even Jesse wants to shake him just to see that smooth expression crack just an inch. “Part of being a leader is having to make difficult decisions. You can’t anticipate everything that’s going to happen in combat. I’ve read the reports from the other agents. Everybody agreed that there wasn’t anything you could have done. You made the right calls at the right times. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do.”

 _Sometimes there’s nothing you can do._ Somehow Reyes knew exactly which of his buttons to press to make him feel just as powerless as he’d felt in that terrible moment.

“Her leg was blown off right in front of my face,” he sarls, head foggy in his fury. “Do you have any idea how that feels?”

“Of course I do,” Reyes barks back.

Jesse falls silent. Just like that, the fight drains out of him like air from a balloon. He loosens his grip, so tightly clenched around the cloth of his pants that his knuckles are white, and his fingers shake like insect wings. He’d said that in anger; of course Reyes knows what that’s like. Since the first day Jesse’d picked up a gun and before, Reyes had been in this business, and every year the list of people who die under his watch grows longer. He didn’t deserve the bite of shrapnel from Jesse’s self-directed anger.

“Sorry.”

“I’m not looking for an apology, Jesse. I want you to listen to me.” Reyes leans back in his chair, eyes never leaving his. “How many people do you think have died under my command? Have lost limbs? Lost their careers following my orders?”

Enough, certainly. He’s seen the way Reyes coops himself up in his office after a particularly bad mission. The burden of command, the impossible weight it heaves onto your shoulders—of course Reyes understood that better than anybody.

Without waiting for Jesse’s response, Reyes slides open one of his desk drawers and pulls out a wooden box, dark-lacquered with shining gold hinges. It stands out as something expensive and old, yet well-cared for. Hs pulls the box open. Inside lies a collection of cigars, each nestled in a shallow bed of dark red velvet. Reyes plucks two from their beds and slides one across the desk towards Jesse.

“Sir?”

Reyes doesn’t respond right away, instead pulling a knife from the same drawer he pulled the box from, cutting the tip of his cigar with a flourish before offering the blade to Jesse for him to do the same. Jesse accepts the knife with still-shaking fingers, holding up the cigar in the other hand to the dim yellow light hanging above. It’s clearly hand-rolled and smells as expensive as it looks, especially after a lifetime of cheap cigarettes. He’d seen the other members of Deadlock cut their cigars a hundred times so he imitates that with no trouble, though with distinctly less of a knack for it as Reyes. He blames the shaking that has yet to subside. 

“After the first mission I lead my superior officer gave me a cigar.” He pauses to grab the lighter from his desk and light the tip, taking a long pull from the cigar, breathing out the fumes to his right, away from Jesse’s face. “I was in the same position you are now. Things hadn’t gone the way I’d wanted them to. I couldn’t stop thinking about everything that had gone wrong. Would things have gone differently if I’d waited for more perfect timing? Did I make all the right choices? How could I cope with the guilt?”

Reyes holds out the lighter to Jesse then and Jesse’s hit with the memory of when they’d met for the first time in that interrogation room, Reyes towering over him as he’d offered Jesse a light like he was tossing a scrap of meat to a starved dog. Now it’s Reyes leaning forward, watching the end of Jesse’s cigar flicker to life. The first pull is like trying his first cigarette again—strong and overwhelming, smooth as the burn of good bourbon down his throat even as he fights back a cough.

“He told me the same thing I’m going to tell you: being a leader is more than making all the right decisions every time. It’s about having the strength to make the tough decisions.” Another pull, this one deeper than the first. He leans forward onto one arm, folded over the desk. “Do you know why I chose you, Jesse?”

“No, sir.”

“Because you care more than anybody else,” Reyes says, with so much conviction that Jesse doesn’t know how to react in the face of it. “That’s why you’ll be good at leading, and that’s why it’ll keep hurting. But you’re also tough. If I didn’t believe that you could do this I would’ve picked someone else.”

 _God._ Jesse puts the cigar up to his lips again. He wants to feel the burn—needs to feel the hot protest of his lungs, feel anything but this tight coil of _something_ in his gut.

“Agent Goncharov knew what she was getting into just like the rest of us,” Reyes goes on to say. “She knew what she was risking for the mission, and the last thing I’m gonna let you do is tear yourself to pieces too.”

Jesse’s eyes burn, from smoke or the start of tears, and either way it’s something he needs to beat back.

“Have you been to the medbay yet?” Reyes asks.

Jesse hadn’t. He’d walked past it, though, a dozen times or more, each time stopping himself from entering out of fear of what he’d see there—fear, resentment, or worse, forgiveness. It didn’t matter which. It’d crush him.

“They’re working on a prosthetic. The medics said she’ll walk again. She’s tough, Jess.”

Jesse feels like he can breathe again. “I know that.”

“You’re still blaming yourself.” It’s not a question. “Be honest, Jesse. Do you think I’m a good commander?”

Jesse’s answer doesn’t take much thought. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you think that every agent who dies under my command is my fault?” Jesse doesn’t say a word. Can’t. “‘Course, it feels like it sometimes. But thinking like that isn’t going to do you any good. I make the best calls I can, but my judgement isn’t infallible. Nobody’s is. Shit’s gonna happen, and all you can do is keep trying.”

Jesse’s face crumples. “It’s not that easy. I saw her—” He cuts himself off.

“I know, kid.” Reyes shifts again, looking off to the far wall of his office, or something beyond it. "This job has an end date. We're lucky if we're alive on the other side of it."

It's nothing Jesse hadn't known before, but with the image of limbs askew on the ground so fresh in his mind it's a sobering thought. Of course, Jesse has always known he'd die with a gun in his hand, and a new lease on life hasn't changed that.

Reyes doesn’t say anything after that. Instead, they finish up their cigars in silence, smoke filling the room as effectively as words. When the cigars are stubbed out, and Jesse finally feels like he can breathe again, Reyes stands up from his chair. Arms bent behind his head at strange angles, he stretches out the muscles there, neck cracking as he cranes it from right to left, then back.

“I think it’s time you got some sleep, cowboy.”

Jesse just nods, exhaustion finally taking over now that his anger is extinguished. He pulls himself to his feet, same as Reyes, and heads for the door on stiff legs, cramped from sitting too long and held too tensely. As soon as he reaches the doorway, though, he pauses.

“Does it ever get easier?”

Reyes doesn’t answer right away. “Would it make me heartless to say that it does?” After a moment, Jesse shakes his head. “Then, yeah. It gets easier. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel anything, though.” Jesse finally dares to look back. Reyes’s eyes are tired and warm. “Get some sleep, kid.”

Jesse rolls his eyes. “Not a kid.”

“You’ll always be a kid in my eyes, _ni_ _ñ_ _o.”_

“You’re okay givin’ cigars t’ kids, then?”

Reyes huffs out half a laugh. “Smartass. And I’m serious about getting sleep. You have to be up early tomorrow.”

Jesse frowns. “I got nothin’ ‘till noon.”

“Change of plans. You’re going on a run with me tomorrow, 0600 sharp.”

Jesse groans. “You’re a cruel man, Reyes.”

“If you’re late I’ll throw in an extra mile.”

  
  
  
  
  


4.

When he’d first joined Blackwatch, Jesse had tried not to think too hard about the people they were sent out to kill. Now he craves it—knowing how bad these people are. He wants to know their body count, how many lives they’ve put an end to, the trail of blood and pain they’ve left behind them. Needs to know he’s making a difference in the world, even if it’s just taking out one scumbag at a time.

Their guy this time is an arms dealer dipping his toes in deeper waters. The mission is pretty straightforward: part reconnaissance, part assassination, with Jesse responsible for the latter. They’d received intel that he’d be in St. Petersburg visiting his mistress and tracked him down to an upscale hotel surrounded by nondescript concrete towers. A sniper’s paradise, if not for the hotel’s thick storm windows blocking a clean shot through the window. 

His hat pushed low on his head is the only thing keeping the rain from getting into his eyes. The gloves he has on are specifically designed to combat the loss of friction from rain, but Jesse would still prefer to have a bare finger on the trigger. There’s something not quite right about the pull of a trigger through cloth.

There’s a flash of lightning in the distance and the loud rumble of thunder just after. Jesse’s been out here upwards of two hours now and, honestly, he’s seen photos of the man. How much stamina could he possibly have?

“Is there a Plan B where I kick down his door and shoot ‘im with his dick out?” he grumbles, mostly to himself.

Reyes sighs over the comm line. “You ever planning on shutting up, McCree?”

“Don’t stop him, boss,” Petrov says. “If we’re lucky he’ll keep his mouth open long enough that he drowns up there.”

Jesse glares through the scope of the rifle. “Fuck off. Y’all would be doin’ the same as me if you were out in this mess.”

The line goes quiet again and Jesse concentrates on surveying the area for people while still keeping an eye on the back entrance of the hotel.

“There’s activity in the stairwell, McCree. Stay alert. That might be him.”

Jesse takes the cue to shut up. “Aye aye, captain.”

After what can’t be more than five minutes, the side entrance to the hotel swings open and their man walks out. His bodyguard is holding an umbrella over his head. With all the rain pelting down on them, neither is paying any attention to the roofs above. 

Jesse pulls the trigger. The mark’s body crumples to the ground, collapsing into the puddle at his feet and sending water flying into his bodyguard.

“Clean shot,” he reports, and begins quickly dismantling his gun.

“Good work, McCree. Petrov, do you have sights on the mistress?”

“About a mile away in her cab. Won’t find out ‘till her next check doesn’t clear, probably.”

“Copy that. Reconvene at 0800.”

“Copy that, boss.”

Jesse adds, “Sweet dreams, _jefe.”_

“They will be knowing I won’t hear your voice for another ten hours, McCree.”

There’s a few seconds of loud ribbing through the earpiece before Jesse tells them all to fuck off and cuts the connection. 

Their hotel is far enough away from their marks to avoid detection. It takes Jesse about fifteen minutes to get far enough away from the scene to call a cab, and by then he’s soaked through to the bone. It’s a long ride made longer by the cold slowly seeping through from his wet jacket all the way to his bones. All he wants is a dry change of clothes and a smoke.

It’s a fitting end to a miserable night when Jesse finally makes it into his hotel room and pulls out his cigarette pack, only to find it completely soaked through.

“Shit.”

The hotel they’re in is too dingy to sell cigarettes and the nearest convenience store would be another block away in the rain. Jesse weighs his options then, staring at the rain coming down in sheets through the window, and figures it can’t hurt to try. He throws his jacket down, grabs the hotel key, and walks down the hall.

Reyes looks about as pissed as Jesse had expected when he opens his door.

“Thought I said I didn’t want to hear your voice again until 0800. You need a refresher on what 0800 means, McCree?”

“Sorry, boss. Extenuatin’ circumstances.” Jesse smiles sheepishly, waving the wet pack of cigarettes in front of his face. “Just bum me one and I’ll be outta your hair.”

His dark expression doesn’t melt in the face of Jesse’s charm, shockingly. “Is that supposed to convince me? You think I give a rat’s ass about whether you have your smoke or not?” 

Jesse sighs, leaning his weight against the doorway. He puts on his best disarming smile. “First you make me stay out in the rain all day, then you deny me my smokes? You’re a cruel man, Reyes.”

Reyes rolls his eyes but steps back from the door, making space for Jesse to step inside.

“Wait here,” he orders, and then steps out of the room. A few seconds later a towel is tossed at Jesse’s head. “Don’t need you tracking water on the floor.”

Jesse begins towelling off his hair. “Your hospitality leaves a lot to be desired, boss.”

“Be grateful I let you in here at all. You smell like a drowned rat and don’t look any better.”

Jesse peels off his jacket and wet shirt, placing them on the empty food tray by the door. He leaves his spandex undershirt on, wiping at wet arms until he’s no longer dripping water onto the carpet. 

Jesse expects Reyes to toss him a cigarette and kick him out but instead he waves Jesse over to his balcony. He’s leaning against the railing by the time Jesse gets out there, watching the water pour down the edge of the balcony above. It’s been a while since Jesse has seen him this dressed down in just a tank and sweats. Even during combat practice he’s usually in a sweater. His dog tags are visible for once, shining against his dark chest as they catch light from the streetlight below.

Reyes is a private person. He’s closed off even when he drinks and doesn’t smoke in front of people often. If he hadn’t bummed Jesse a cigarette during his interrogation, he might not have realized he smoked at all. But here they are, all these years later, and Jesse’s lucky enough to get the chance to watch him exhale smoke into the cold Russian air.

Jesse finally lifts his own stick to his mouth and feels Reyes’s eyes on him.

“Better than that shit you smoke?”

The brand Reyes smokes is something a little earthier than his. More expensive, definitely. Suits him the same way the cheap shit suits Jesse.

“I ain’t bougie like you, boss. Nothin’ wrong with the cheap stuff.”

“I could name about ten things off the top of my head.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Jesse smiles wryly around the cigarette. “Don’t matter anyway, I suppose. I don’t have super lungs like yours, but I know this ain’t what’ll kill me.”

Reyes huffs out a laugh. “Pretty morbid for someone young like you.”

“You were in my ear while I shot a man today and now you’re lecturin’ me about bein’ morbid. Ain’t a kid any longer, neither.”

Reyes’s next stare lingers, then drops. “Yeah, guess not.”

Jesse takes another drag and when he glances over again, Reyes is looking at him again. He almost wants to laugh, because he might’ve fantasized about something like this one or two or a hundred times before, and who would’ve thought that all it would take to get Reyes to look at him like that was pawing at his hotel room like a wet dog? Then again, maybe he should’ve suspected earlier, given Reyes’s affinity for strays.

He’s hit by the reckless urge to draw out the night. “You got any beer?”

Reyes spares him another glance. “One vice a night not good enough for you?”

“Thought it might be nice sharin’ a drink with you, that’s all. Since you’re in such a generous mood.”

“I don’t drink during missions.”

“You drink after,” Jesse presses, because he’s seen it. Nights after long missions, turning his report in last just to see Reyes with his feet up and half a six-pack empty on the corner of his desk. “Mission’s over now.”

Reyes takes another long drag without looking up and Jesse thinks that’s his way of ignoring him, but then he stubs his cigarette out on the railing and leaves it there while he walks back into the room. He comes back a minute later with a bottle full of something dark and definitively not beer along with two styrofoam cups, the hotel’s insignia stamped on them, individually wrapped.

“Don’t have any beer in the fridge. This alright?”

It’s a bottle of whiskey from the looks of it. Not any brand Jesse recognizes, label covered in cyrillic, but Jesse’s never been too picky about what he puts in his body, for better or for worse.

“Better than alright,” Jesse says. He tears the plastic from the cups and pours about two shots worth in his cup and the same for Reyes. “Cheers, boss.”

Reyes grunts, but he indulges Jesse by lifting the cup in Jesse’s direction. The whiskey tastes like piss on his tongue but it goes down easy enough. Jesse chases the taste with a cigarette and watches as Reyes slowly drains his cup. He’s never seen the man drunk before, although he’s seen something close to it—wonders if it takes more to get him drunk with the serum fucking up his system. Jesse’d like to pick him apart from the inside, to dig a hand into his chest and see if his heart beats the same as the rest of them.

“You know, I wasn’t sure if you’d last.”

The non-sequitur catches Jesse off-guard. He wonders if he’d missed half a conversation somewhere, but Reyes is looking somewhere beyond the railing with a distant look on his face like he’s somewhere else in his mind. Looking at the rain, Jesse realizes.

“A little storm can’t stop me,” he says, grinning even though Reyes can’t see it. “You really think a few drops of water’d be enough to make me bail on a mission?”

“When I picked you up, I mean.”

And again, Jesse's caught off-guard. 

Reyes is still staring off into the distance. “You were so scrawny back then, drowning in your jeans. Belt looped twice around your hips and your beard growing in patchy. Looking at you now, it’s hard to believe you’re the same kid who hoarded water bottles in his room the first week on base.”

“Hey, that shit’s hard to come by out west,” Jesse says and Reyes huffs out a laugh. “Feeling nostalgic tonight, boss?”

Reyes shrugs. “Jack called you my right-hand man the other day. Guess it put things in perspective I hadn’t really thought about. Never needed a right-hand man before. Never wanted one, either. Getting to a position like mine, you learn quickly that you can’t trust a whole lot of people.”

“You trust me?” Jesse can’t help but ask.

“God help me, I do,” says Reyes. There’s a curious smile on his face, subtle enough that Jesse wonders if he’s not just imagining it. “Knew you’d do good with that gun of yours, just never thought...”

“Never thought what?” Jesse presses. This is what he’s best at, after all. Needling at someone until he gets under their skin. 

Lightning cracks in the distance but Reyes doesn’t look away from him for a second. “Never thought we’d be here.”

It’s jarring in its honesty while somehow lacking in it all the same. There’s something buried there in those words and Jesse knows what it is because he thinks the same. He never thought they’d be here, either. Never thought they’d be drinking together. Never thought he’d trust someone like this. It’s been a while since anyone’s given half a damn about him, and maybe it’s the same for Reyes. Maybe it’s time one of them did something about it.

“Well,” Jesse says, and he takes a second to take another drag of his cigarette, making sure Reyes’s eyes are on his lips as they curl around the shaft of it. When he releases he lets his hand fall on the railing, fingertips just barely brushing Reyes’s. Close enough to be an invitation, light enough for Reyes to pull away if he wants.

He doesn’t. “McCree,” he begins, like he’s got something to say, but then he stops short.

“Come on, boss,” Jesse pushes. “At least have the courtesy of usin’ my name when you reject me.”

That at least puts half a smile on his face. “Same goes for you, then. You’re really gonna call me ‘boss’ right now?”

Jesse smirks. “That depends. You like it?”

Reyes covers his hand on the railing. His fingers are warm, even as rain drops down from the balcony above. “I want you to use my name.”

Jesse’s never been one to disobey one of his orders. “Reyes.”

Reyes leans in. Even though their eyes are level, it feels like he’s towering over him. When he speaks it’s barely more than a whisper, but Jesse can’t hear anything else around them. “Getting warmer, Jesse.”

Hearing his name said like that, heady and low, sets his belly on fire. Jesse swallows. “Gabe.”

His first thought when Reyes finally smashes his lips into his is that he tastes like whiskey. The second isn’t much of a thought at all, just the sudden, desperate realization of how bad he’s wanted this. How many years of denial and longing and impatience have led up to this moment. Reyes kisses like he’s been waiting, too—his hand so tightly coiled in Jesse’s hair that it hurts. The right kind of hurt, just like Jesse likes it.

Reyes pulls back, eyes lit up like the quiet flame of a candle. “You’re sure—”

Jesse doesn’t let him finish. He works Reyes’s mouth open and catches his bottom lip between his teeth, savoring the grunt he gets in return. It’s strange that it’s taken him until now, mouths sealed together, hands frantically grasping on to whatever clothing they can find, to really understand they’re the same height.

Jesse’s back slams into the partition window as Reyes’s hands grip the back of his thighs, one hand digging into the skin while the other creeps up under his spandex shirt. His hands feel impossibly warm after a night in the cold, the chill not yet having left his body.

“Fuck,” he groans, Reyes’s hand creeping from under his shirt to beneath the elastic band of Jesse’s briefs.

“How do you wanna do this, cowboy?” Reyes murmurs, almost a purr. Jesse can hardly think. 

“Want you in me so bad, but I didn’t prep or nothin’ so just—let me suck you.”

Reyes grapples him by the thighs, each hand wrapped around his hamstrings, hefting him through the partition doors and into the room. Only a few of Jesse’s past partners could lift him up and he can’t deny the way it gets his blood pumping. Reyes all but dumps him onto the bed before climbing over, cold fingers pushing the fabric of his shirt up his chest, mouth half a heartbeat behind, leaving warm trails of saliva up his torso.

“Fuck,” Jesse pants, pushing Reyes away for a second to slip his head the rest of the way through his shirt. Reyes uses the reprieve to rid himself of his own shirt.

It’s a mess of limbs after that as they both rush to pull off everything else until they’re both bare. Jesse barely has a second to take it all in before his lips attach to Reyes’s chest, running his hands down his sides, kneading the skin there on his way towards gripping his hips, tongue sliding between abdominal muscles until his chin is resting on the thick trail of hair at his pelvis.

“Say it again,” Reyes grunts, fingers twisting in Jesse’s hair as he forces his jaw up to lock eyes. “My name.”

“Gabe,” says Jesse, gaze never straying even once until he finally lowers his head and takes him into his mouth, letting the sensations of everything wash away any remaining thoughts.

  
  
  
  


It feels simultaneously like hours and like it’s over before it really started by the time they fall back onto the bed, sweat-drenched and spent. Even as Jesse feels warm for the first time all day, Reyes’s hand still burns hot where it rests against his thigh. He lets the moment linger, lets that warmth overwhelm the terrible uncertainty and dread bundled tight in his chest like a blood clot.

For as long as he’s wanted this he’s feared the aftermath and now, in that moment, he doesn’t fear it any less.

The rain has calmed down by the time Jesse rises up onto unsteady legs and gathers his clothing from the carpet, droplets tapping out a slow cadence as they drip from the balcony above, barely visible through the fogged window. He feels eyes on him as he examines the state of his pants, still damp under his fingers.

“Not much time left ‘fore 0800,” Jesse muses.

“Not much, no.”

“I ‘spose I should be headin’ out, then.”

He receives a snort at that and Jesse turns around, unsure of what to make of it. On the bed Reyes hasn’t bothered to pull a sheet over himself, back ramrod straight even as he relaxes against a pillow. If Jesse had been expecting dismissal, there’s none of it to be found in his face. “Is that a question?”

Jesse smiles, kneading the clothing in his hands thoughtfully. “Dunno. You gonna answer it like it’s one?”

Reyes reclines back onto the bed, shifting just enough towards the edge that Jesse gets the idea even before the words leave his mouth.

Humor twists up the corners of Reyes’s lips. “I’d have to be a pretty cruel man to send you back in those wet clothes, wouldn’t I?”

Jesse lets the clothes fall back onto the floor in a damp clump without care, something he’ll curse himself for once it’s time to dress again. He slides into the spot set aside for him and lets gravity and a set of thick fingers guide his head onto the pillow.

“Sleep,” Reyes mutters. The sheets are draped over him carefully, followed by the warm weight of an arm on his chest. “You can leave in the morning.”

And, well. Jesse’s never been one to refuse his orders.

  
  
  
  
  


5.

Jesse’s been in bed for about an hour by the time Gabe pushes through the door, thumbing mindlessly through a novel he can’t remember exactly how had ended up in his possession. He tosses it onto the nightstand in favor of watching Gabe pull off his clothes instead. Even years after the first time he’d seen it, Jesse never gets sick of the sight. Gabe’s broad back, muscles contorting over bone as he stretches the shirt over his head, pants following after. He ducks into the bathroom, door shut halfway. Jesse can hear the noises of Gabe brushing his teeth, the splashing of him washing his face. When he emerges, walking towards Jesse, he looks exhausted.

“Long night?”

The bed dips under Gabe’s weight. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

“‘Course not. But aren’t you glad I did?”

Gabe’s response is a drawn out kiss. His tongue tastes like mint sliding against Jesse’s teeth. He groans, chases Gabe’s mouth as he pulls back. Gabe reaches over Jesse to grab the carton of cigarettes he keeps on the nightstand. It’s an easy routine. Jesse grabs the lighter and holds it up for Gabe, the flame the only source of light in the dark room. Gabe takes one drag before holding it up to Jesse’s mouth between his thick fingers. He loves the taste of Gabe’s cigarettes. After so many nights exchanging kisses between drags, they’ve started to taste like Gabe himself.

They lie side by side, passing the stick between them silently. Jesse’s fingers move Gabe’s dog tags across his skin in small circles.

“Shit’s cold,” Gabe mutters.

Jesse smiles against his skin. “A big bad special agent like you, afraid of some cold?”

Gabe rolls his eyes. “You got me.”

Jesse lets go of the chain and drags his fingernails through Gabe’s chest hair instead, loving the way Gabe groans under his touch, chest vibrating under the skin of Jesse’s cheek. After a minute or so he has to readjust his position, hip burning uncomfortably as he moves around.

“Ugh,” Jesse groans. “Muscles ache. Feels like I’m quickly turnin’ into an old man.”

“Christ,” Gabe laughs, puffs of breath against Jesse’s hair. “If you’re an old man, what’s that make me?”

Jesse smirks at him, staring up beneath his eyelashes. “A _sexy_ old man.”

“Come here,” Gabe breathes, holding the cigarette away from his face to give Jesse a quick kiss, pulling Jesse’s hair tight against his scalp as punishment. He pulls back, letting Jesse rest his head against his chest again.

For the most part the old man thing is a joke, but he has started to notice the difference between stretching or not before missions, although it’s nothing compared to Gabe’s ever-increasing number of SEP-related health issues, not that Gabe ever tells him much about it. He’s been more withdrawn lately. There are nights where Jesse has to work to pull him out of his head. He knows Gabe is hiding something, and he’s not sure it’s just his health.

Lately Jesse has begun to feel more like an extension of Peacekeeper than a person. An old tool, still useful. Some days it feels like he’s walking blindfolded towards the edge of a cliff. Around every corner, a creeping sense of wrongness.

It feels like so long ago that they’d had that chat in Gabe’s office about loss. Jesse had been so worried about death, then. Now he knows there are other ways to lose someone.

Gabe comes to bed later and leaves earlier. Still, there are moments caught in between where Jesse can pretend everything is alright. On nights like these, passing a smoke back and forth, Jesse can pretend it’s all in his head. That nothing has changed between them, that the only distance between them is the inch or so between their pillows.

“Oi, _cari_ _ñ_ _o._ Lost in your head?”

Jesse hums in agreement. “Distract me?”

They kiss, warm and slow, and Jesse lets Gabe overwhelm him, lets him run his hands over every inch of his body until every muscle is yearning equally for that warmth, lets Gabe’s fingers remind him why he’s still here and they’re still here, wrapped up in each other despite everything.

Gabe’s mouth finds his neck. Jesse brings the cigarette up to his lips, chest rising to meet Gabe’s lips. The thing is, people like them would never have anyone else. The ugliness they’d submerged themselves in was buried too deep under their skin.

Tied down equally by exhaustion and the magnetic pull of each other, they don’t have the energy for much more than feeling each other.

Eventually Gabe pulls back, eyes already half-closed before he even throws his head back against the pillow. Jesse stares at his face, taking in every detail, every freckle and wrinkle, all the subtle ways he’s changed over time. For the most part he looks exactly the same as the day they’d met, when Gabe had lit his cigarette in the interrogation room and something in his chest had flickered to life along with it.

He longs, impossibly, for this to last forever.

Ash burns his fingertips. Jesse stubs the last of the cigarette out on the ashtray and lays his head on Gabe’s warm chest, letting the heat seep through him, knowing it will only last as long as the night does. When he wakes up tomorrow, it will be to an empty bed.

  
  
  
  
  


6.

For a while in his teens, and again through his twenties, he’d thought he’d go down in a blaze of gunfire. He’d die with a smile on his face and blood on his hands, and whoever found him would have to pry a gun out of his cold, stiff fingers. It had never occurred to him that it might end like this, with a bag over his shoulder and only the moon for company. Perhaps that’s why he feels so lost, even some odd months after making the decision to leave. For the most part he’s done a decent job of keeping his head down and his pockets lined, just enough to get by, only in the ways he can stomach after so many years of having no choice.

 _This job has an end date. We're lucky if we're alive on the other side of it._ The first time he’d heard those words he hadn’t thought much of it, but now, after pulling the rug out from under his own damn feet, it’s all Jesse thinks about.

The thought that this might be what he does for the rest of his time, however long or short that ends up being, is a terrifying one.

Maybe the world has run out of luck for him. Maybe Jesse’s finally run out of chances, squandered too many opportunities in his lifetime—in friendships, in love, in just about every way that mattered. He’s been doing a lot of thinking lately, for better or worse. Mostly about what he’s left behind, although it hurts most days to even put memories to the names and faces. 

For a long time he’d believed there wasn’t an ounce of goodness in him. He did what he needed to survive and, at the time, that was good enough. That had slowly changed after he’d joined Overwatch. For that bit of time, he’d had purpose. For a while he was useful, and he was good, until suddenly he wasn’t sure if that was true anymore. He’d been lied to and manipulated to his whole life, and somehow the edge of that blade had never dulled even after so many years. It still hurt just as much when pressed into his back.

Jesse wonders sometimes if this hadn’t been the plan all along—to take someone like him, so unused to doing good, and string him along with the promise of making something of himself. To create the perfect willing puppet, sprinkle praise and attention along the way until he craved it, giving just enough in return to make him stay. It haunts Jesse, the idea that none of it mattered in the end. The more he’s thought of it the more fucked up it seems: how young he was when they’d recruited him, the circumstances which had pushed him into Blackwatch in the first place. At the time he’d been so desperate, so distracted in his search for meaning that he’d missed all the red flags along the way.

He throws back the rest of his whiskey, anxious to cut off that line of thinking. Deep down he knows he’s been falling back on alcohol too often, but right now he can’t find it in him to care. He craves the numbness, flagging down the bartender to motion for another round.

In his bag he keeps a pack of expensive cigarettes just for the way the smell drags up memories. He digs them out now, holding one between his lips as he fumbles his hands around his jacket, searching for the lighter he knows is around there somewhere. It’s in that moment he spares a glance up and catches sight of something that stops all thoughts in their tracks.

On the television it comes in flashes: fire, the Swiss Skyline, piles of rubble, smoke seeping between the fallen remains like storm clouds though the alps. Jesse’s heart catches in his chest. He’d recognize the base blindfolded, as much as his brain fights the idea. The words creeping at the bottom of the screen, white text on blue, stark against the black and white debris, pull his attention next:

_Suspected dead: Jack Morrison, Gabriel Reyes_

The list of names continues past that but Jesse doesn’t look. Can’t. The bartender is staring at the screen in rapt fascination when he brings Jesse’s whiskey over.

“Jesus,” he says, eyes never leaving the screen. It’s a good thing, because Jesse’s not sure what expression he’s wearing. Certainly nothing subtle. “Look at all that.”

Jesse turns away with his glass in hand, downing half of it in one go before slamming it back down on the bar. “Stepping out for a smoke. I’ll close my tab when I’m back.”

He doesn’t stick around long enough to listen for the bartender’s response, although he figures the man’s distracted enough not to pay him much attention. He finds his lighter in the front pocket of his jeans, which he fishes out with trembling fingers, fumbling the first few attempts to spark a light. It ignites on his fourth try and Jesse sucks in a desperate breath, letting it fill his lungs completely before spitting it out, watching as it expels from his mouth like a ghost.

In one moment, everything turned to ash, like a cigarette drawn down to the filter. All he can taste, suddenly, is death.

Jesse doesn’t take a second drag. He drops the cigarette down the storm drain below his boots, along with the rest of his carton. He heads back into the bar, closes his tab, and pushes on down the street and past it, towards that uncertain horizon.

And, like always, Jesse adapts.

**Author's Note:**

> _There’s smoke everywhere, the same smoke he’s been seeing in his dreams for years, and it’s in his eyes and lungs and everywhere besides. Jesse can’t do more than cough, but it doesn’t matter. He knows now that this can’t be real because beneath it all he hears a ghost’s voice._
> 
> _“Gabe…?"_


End file.
